


Hold On, Hold Tight (make it through another night)

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coda, De-Aged Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Stiles Stilinksi/Malia Tate, Pre-Slash, Spoilers, Stiles is Derek's Anchor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You feel important,” Derek finally blurts out, the tips of his ears going red the second the words are out of his mouth.</p><p>Stiles blinks at him. “What?”</p><p>Baby-faced Derek bites his lip again, which is… distracting. “Something is wrong,” he finally says, slowly. “I don’t know what, because none of you are telling me <i>anything</i>—” and ah, there’s a hint of the old Derek. Stiles would recognize that scowl anywhere. “—but I know that everything smells wrong. And that I can’t feel mom anymore. I can’t feel <i>anyone</i>, except for <i>you</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold On, Hold Tight (make it through another night)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darthvair65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthvair65/gifts).



> Written for my Jenny-poo, because her birthday was a couple days ago. She asked for slightly angsty fic where Stiles ends up comforting Derek with cuddles after they get him back for Kate. I'd started writing before last night's episode came out and I'm glad I didn't finish because I deleted everything and started this instead. Will probably be jossed next week but whatevvvver. Also: try imagining that drive back to Beacon Hills. Would they cram Derek in the back with Lydia, Kira, and Scott and have Malia ride shotgun? I'm sorry, but talk about awkward silences. Everyone is already physically uncomfortable in the backseat and then Derek's like, hey, where's my mom? Yeah. Shutting up now. Hope you like it Jen!

The first thing that Derek asks them is where his mother is. Then, in quick succession, he asks about Laura and Cora. Peter. His dad. Another handful of names that Stiles only knows from police reports. Everyone who's still awake shifts uncomfortably and Stiles thinks, _thank god Malia’s asleep_ , because this would be the conversation in the cell all over again — friends are friends, _not food_. She's great, sure, and he likes her — a lot, okay, not to quote Mean Girls, but yeah, he’s only half a virgin because of her, of course he likes her — but they're still working on her brain to mouth filter.  
  
They don't say much because seriously, what do you even _say_ to something like that? When Stiles glances in the rearview though, Scott has an arm around Derek’s shoulder and is whispering quietly in his ear.  
  
There isn't a fallout of epic proportions, so he's pretty sure that Scott hadn't said, “Hey bro, yeah, about that? Your entire family is a little on the crispy side.” Whatever it was, it's apparently enough for Derek, who after another thirty minutes of staring blankly out the window, falls into an uneasy sleep, sandwiched between Lydia and Scott in the backseat.  
  
Later, in the motel, after Stiles finally breaks down and admits that he can't actually drive all night, he pulls Scott to the side — far enough out of werewolf hearing that he's 99.5% sure that Derek won't overhear — and says, “We’re going to have to tell him, aren’t we?”  
  
Scott bites his lip and sighs, all the bravado leaking out of him, leaving a world weary teenager in the ‘true’ alpha’s place. He whispers back, “Let’s just get home first.”  
  
.  
  
“Who _are_ you?” Derek — and god, it’s so weird to think that the puppyish sixteen year old that’s spent the last three days in his backseat is _Derek Hale_ , the guy who could possibly petrify a puppy with his scowl alone; just yesterday, Derek had given Malia half of his orange with this tiny, shy little smile, it was _weird_ — asks him, cocking a head at Stiles like a cocker spaniel. Stiles swallows and firmly stuffs all the dog jokes that come to mind to the back of his head.  
  
He scuffs his shoes against his carpet and doesn’t make eye contact with Derek, who’s sitting on Stiles’ bed with a comic book in his lap — an old one, because they still haven’t told him that it’s 2014 yet and he doesn't want to break that kind of news with a _comic_ book — and shifting around like he needs to pee or something. Stiles is officially on babysitting duty while Scott and the others go talk to Deaton, separately first, because they don’t want to risk Derek recognizing Deaton just yet. Stiles is happy to be home, happy that the road trip from hell didn't end with any of them _dying_ , that it's finally over and done with, even if it does mean that they’ve still got a world of shit to sort through.  
  
“I mean,” Derek starts, the comic book sliding out of his lap as he slumps backwards onto Stiles' pillows. He rolls around a little, pressing his nose to Stiles’ pillow — his _favorite_ pillow, the one he can’t sleep without — and sniffing a little. “I’m not stupid. Something is going on and I don’t know you guys, but you—”  
  
He falters, propping himself back up on his elbows and squinting at Stiles. From the corner of his eye, Stiles watches as he shifts again uncomfortably. It’s strange, to see Derek so tactile, his body language a goddamn open book.  
  
“I what?” Stiles finally says, spinning around in his computer chair so he can look at Derek straight on. Derek starts, eyes widening a little, and god, he looks so much _younger_ than Stiles did a year ago. Maybe it’s because he’s so used to seeing Derek as a growly twenty-something dude, not a puppy-eyed teenager.  
  
He’s tried to avoid talking to Derek as much as possible, distracting himself and Malia both with petty bickering over the radio and conversations that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they had a de-aged, confused werewolf in their backseat. After all, she wasn’t the only one with a shitty brain to mouth filter and while he and Derek have had a bit of a rocky relationship since day one, he actually kind of likes the guy now? A little bit? Like, actually likes him, not just lusting over him from afar. So he doesn’t want to be the one to spill the beans that Derek’s family is dead and also, yeah, the kid totally pulled a bit of a Captain America there. A mini Captain America. Without the ice, but with more kidnapping and weird Aztec churches. Whatever. Bad analogy.  
  
Derek’s hesitating again, chewing on his lower lip and _fidgeting_ , oh god. Older Derek had raw animal magnetism going for him, but this Derek is adorable enough to eat. Which makes it even stranger that Stiles is still kind of attracted to this new him, because yeah. Stiles has a type: gorgeous, unattainable people who could eat him up and spit him out. This Derek, while still a werewolf, would probably apologize if he so much as knocked into Stiles' elbow.  
  
“Come on, dude, spit it out,” he sighs, rolling a pen between his fingers and attempting to valiantly still his leg, which has been jittering uncontrollably for the last twenty minutes.  
  
“You feel important,” Derek finally blurts out, the tips of his ears going red the second the words are out of his mouth.  
  
Stiles blinks at him. “What?”  
  
Baby-faced Derek bites his lip again, which is… distracting. “Something is wrong,” he finally says, slowly. “I don’t know what, because none of you are telling me _anything_ —” and ah, there’s a hint of the old Derek. Stiles would recognize that scowl anywhere. “—but I know that everything smells wrong. And that I can’t feel mom anymore. I can’t feel _anyone_ , except for _you_.”  
  
“Me?” Stiles repeats, leaning forward so abruptly that the chair squeaks in protest, the pen falling from between his teeth to land somewhere near his feet. “Not Scott?”  
  
Derek shakes his head. “I can’t explain it. I— You know about anchors, right? That alpha, Scott, you’re in his pack, right? So you have to know about them.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles snorts. “I’m familiar with anchors.”  
  
Derek nods, flopping back onto Stiles’ pillows. He refuses to be weirded out by the fact that the kid rubs his cheek against the fabric, like he’s trying to rub his scent into it. Scott had gone around scenting things in Stiles’ room for like a week after he became the alpha, so Stiles gets it, but it’s still weird. “It’s the closest thing that comes to describing the way you feel,” Derek admits, glancing at Stiles. “My pack has been my anchor since my first change, but you — you feel like that.”  
  
“That is weird,” Stiles tells him, blinking.  
  
He means to ask about the feeling some more, but then Scott’s name is lighting up his phone and the conversation is forgotten, because Scott’s telling them to come to Deaton’s.  
  
.  
  
They tell him. Or rather, Deaton and Scott tells him while Stiles and Lydia wait outside. They’d said that it was safer, in case Derek lost control, but so far everything’s been quiet.  
  
“Do you think we should call Cora?” Lydia asks him. She keeps chewing on her nails for seconds at a time before she realizes what she’s doing. It’s kind of funny, because each time she catches herself at it she flings her hands back into her lap with a noise of disgust.  
  
“Already tried,” Stiles admits. “The number I’ve got for her isn’t in use anymore and the only person who would have her current contact information…”  
  
“Is our amnesiac teen werewolf in there, yeah,” Lydia finishes, sighing heavily.  
  
Inside, something crashes. Loudly. And then it’s silent.  
  
.  
  
“I’m staying with him,” Derek declares.  
  
His eyes are still rimmed in red and he looks like he’s falling apart a little on the inside, but he’s got this stubborn jut to his chin that Stiles is intimately familiar with, considering that Derek’s older counterpart frequently uses it on him.  
  
“Me?” Stiles asks, aghast. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it’s probably not pretty.  
  
Derek nods jerkily and doesn’t look at anyone else, just keeps watching Stiles with that strange, too familiar look in a mostly unfamiliar face.  
  
“Maybe—” Deatons starts, edging into their space.  
  
Derek snarls, eyes flashing blue, and snaps, “Him. I’m staying with him. With Stiles.”  
  
“You okay with that, bro?” Scott asks Stiles gently after another minute of intense staring. When he doesn't respond right away, Scott jostles his shoulder, sending him a concerned look, so Stiles just nods blankly.  
  
“Yeah,” he finally says, shaking himself out of his stupor. Safe. He’s _safe_ to Derek. That’s what the feeling had meant before, when Derek had mentioned his anchors. It’s possible that both of them are reading this wrong and Stiles isn’t Derek’s _actual_ anchor, but the point is that to Derek Hale, the _older_ one, Stiles is _safe_. He’s pack when even Scott, Derek's kind-of, sort-of unspoken alpha, doesn’t feel like it. Stiles blinks, realizing that everyone is still staring at him.  
  
He clears his throat and avoids Derek’s open, wet eyes. “Sure. I mean, hell, it’s not like I haven’t harbored your werewolf ass before.”  
  
.  
  
“You’re someone important,” Derek tells him later that night. Stiles blinks at the darkened ceiling; doesn’t turn his head to look over the edge of the bed at Derek, who’d insisted on dragging the single from the guest bedroom into Stiles’ room. “If you’re my anchor—”  
  
“We don’t know that, man,” Stiles sighs.  
  
Derek sits up and that, Stiles can’t just ignore. He turns over onto his side, looking at the bright eyes peering at him over the edge. “You’re my anchor,” Derek says again, more firmly. “I don’t— who are you to me?”  
  
Stiles swallows and stares at his own shirt hanging loosely on Derek’s frame. _Loose_. Stiles’ shirt is too big for Derek Hale. What the fuck. “I’m—” he starts, pausing when he realizes that he doesn't know how that sentence ends. “I don’t know.”  
  
“We have to be something. Are we really good friends?” Derek hesitates again, before saying in a small voice. “Boyfriends?”  
  
“I have a girlfriend,” Stiles says. The words are a bit too blank and he doesn’t even— they aren’t even altogether _true_. He and Malia are a whole huge world of complicated feelings and teenage hormones, but they aren’t dating. They haven’t discussed it. Haven’t even really kissed since the disaster that was Eichen House except for that one-off in the cell, which hey, awesome right? Stiles Stilinski, only good enough to kiss when he's either having a panic attack or locked up somewhere.  
  
Derek must pick up on that, because he makes a frustrated sound and props his chin up on the edge of the bed, his face only a few inches away from Stiles’. “You’re lying.”  
  
“Not really,” Stiles protests quietly. “I mean, kinda? It’s complicated.”  
  
“Do you love her?” Derek asks, and jesus, of course he’s the true love forever type. Of course. He's practically Scott at sixteen all over again. No wonder they hadn't gotten along at first.  
  
“Not yet,” he answers, because it’s the only way to answer that isn’t a lie.  
  
“But you could.”  
  
Stiles considers that. He likes Malia, but could he love her? Or would he always remember them as that slightly poor decision they made together in a basement when a homicidal fox was trying to use his body to kill everyone? He honestly doesn’t know. “Maybe,” he says, after too long.  
  
“And what about me?” Derek asks. He blinks slowly, lashes dragging against his cheeks. Stiles licks his lips, heart skipping a beat tellingly. “You like me. Older me.”  
  
It isn’t a question.  
  
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation right now,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his eyes. Oh well, honesty is the best policy, and lying hasn't worked out too well in his favor in the past. Might as well go for broke. “Yeah, I like you. Older you. You’re an asshole and you give me bruises in a not very fun way sometimes, you’re a horrible conversationalist, and you _tolerate_ me on a good day.”  
  
He licks his lips again. Derek looks a little appalled at the summary of his adult self, face creased in horror, so Stiles rushes to continue.  
  
“But you’re also Derek _freaking_ Hale. You hid out in my bedroom one time for like three weeks when we _barely_ knew each other after we got you arrested for murder the _second_ time. I almost cut off your arm to save your life. You protected me from your crazy uncle. And from your crazy beta. Both of them, though Jackson was kind of a lizard at the time. Then I totally returned the favor and kept you from drowning.”  
  
Derek is looking at him like he’s crazy. It’s pretty justified. “My point is,” he finally sighs. “Is that we’re _always_ there for each other. He’s— You’re kind of a downer, but yeah. I like you.”  
  
They’re silent for a long moment, just the sounds of crickets chirping outside and his dad snoring down the hallway. Then Derek says, “You should tell him. Me. When you fix this.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Definitely.”  
  
Stiles laughs, quietly, and they sit in silence for another handful of minutes before Derek heaves a frustrated sigh and says, “This is going to sound pretty weird, but can I— can we—”  
  
“Cuddle?” Stiles finishes, amused when Derek just crinkles his nose at him. He can’t say that he’s ever cuddled with _Derek_ , but Scott’s his best friend. He knows just how tactile werewolves are when they’re not a mess of emotion. He shuffles to the side, patting the spot at his side. “Yeah, okay. Get up here, big guy.”  
  
.  
  
“I dreamed about you last night,” Derek tells him when they wake up the next morning more tangled together than not. Thankfully there are no awkward boners. Stiles blinks the gunk from his eyes and peers at the boy who’s sharing his pillow blearily.  
  
“Woah, dude. You aren’t supposed to _tell_ people about your sex dreams.”  
  
Derek punches him in the arm — gently — and snorts. “No, I mean. I had his dreams. Older me. He was dreaming of you.”  
  
“So?” Stiles asks, jaw cracking when he yawns.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes, looking almost fond. God, it’s gonna be weird when he’s back to normal. “So, you’re definitely my anchor. The two of you were just talking in the locker room at school about dreaming. Seriously. Tell him.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles murmurs, stretching. Then, “Pancakes?”  
  
.  
  
When they change him back, Derek just stares blankly at the wall of his loft. Then he asks them to leave, so they do.  
  
Stiles leaves him to his solitude for a day and a half, and the next night, he shows up at Derek’s door in his pajamas with his pillow tucked under his arm. He lets himself in, because Derek’s predictable enough that finding the spare key is a piece of cake.  
  
Derek’s on the couch, which is good, because that at least means he’s _moved_ since they left him, but he barely blinks when Stiles drops down onto the couch next to him, which isn’t so much.  
  
It’s only when Stiles snuggles up against him as obnoxiously as possible that he does move, turning to look at him with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“You’re not all right,” Stiles says carefully. “And that’s okay. I’m not going to ask what happened while you were gone. But it’s okay now. And—”  
  
He hesitates, doubt rearing its ugly head. Derek cocks his head and it’s so like the younger Derek that Stiles wants to laugh. He doesn't. Instead, he says, “You can talk to me. If you’re ever ready to talk about it. I— I don’t suppose you remember your time as Little Derek?”  
  
Derek blinks at him, which could mean anything. Stiles sighs and hesitantly scoots a little closer, wedging his head in under Derek’s armpit and flinging a leg out over the other man’s knee. Mmm, cuddles. He tries to think soothing thoughts in Derek’s direction and remembers the way that the younger Derek had spent the entire week in Stiles' bedroom marking everything he could touch, little brushes of his hands to the surface of just about everything, _including_ Stiles. He'd said that it made him feel better, to know that Stiles smelled like him, so carefully, Stiles nuzzles Derek's shoulder, just a bit.  
  
“I remember a little,” Derek says quietly.  
  
“Do you remember the conversation we had? About me _possibly_ being your anchor?”  
  
Derek flinches at that, which confirms things nicely. Stiles, because he’s not actually an asshole _all the time_ , makes shushing noises and rubs soothing circles into the back of Derek’s neck.  
  
“Well in that case, you’ll remember me telling you that I liked you. So. I’m here. For talks, cuddles, whatever. But I’ve totally got you, bro.”  
  
Derek doesn’t say anything to that, but after about ten minutes of uncomfortably tense snuggling, he relaxes. And well, Stiles still has no idea what’s going on with the Malia situation or if Derek does actually like him the way his younger self thought he might. He doesn’t even know if they’d be good together, you know, _romantically_.  
  
But this? This is progress.  


**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr! My [writing blog](http://callunawrites.tumblr.com/) and [my primary one](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/). :)


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